Unmarked Packages
by FangZone
Summary: It all starts when Sherlock gives a gift to John and tells the doctor to make a deduction of the contents without being able to move the unmarked package. Angst Johnlock with eventual smut (and BDSM). OC included, but shouldn't end up being in the forefront of the story.
1. Unexpected Run-Ins

"You don't remember me, do you?"

The woman's voice was hardly audible over the sound of the roaring club music. There was something about her that seemed familiar, but rang no bells in his mind palace.

"We went to Uni together, Sherlock," the woman continued. "Though, I suppose you wouldn't remember me."

"Well, you can't expect me to remember every soul that attended Uni with me. Although most people that remember me weren't fond of me during that time anyway."

"I suppose you can't. But, just so we're clear, I was never one of those that tormented you, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh?" Sherlock questioned, hardly paying attention to her words and just trying to place her in his memories. If he had known her at any point in his life, she'd been deleted from his Hard Drive.

Then, her voice took on a quicker pace - similar to the one that Sherlock adapts when ranting off his deductions - which couldn't have been easy to do while staying loud enough to be heard. "It could have been because I, too, was tormented by the same people. Then again, it also could be because I scarcely left my flat for anything besides groceries and classes, due to an overwhelming desire to eliminate the majority of risk of having to deal with human interaction. Though, to be quite plain about it, there wasn't - and still isn't - anything to torment you about, Sherlock."

Though slightly impressed with her, Sherlock's face remained unchanged. He glanced her over and her life story fell before him. _Light brown hair, maintained but not to the point of showing a lot of effort; maybe ran a brush through it a couple times a day. Light blue eyes, not accentuated by make-up of any kind. Two piercings on her lower lip and a few tattoos on her left forearm, possible unhappy childhood that she copes with using pain. Maybe she just enjoys the pain, probably so. Dressed in all black, though doesn't seem depressed as most would assume one was while wearing the colour. A pale complexion - not unlike his own - sprinkled with the fair few freckles across her cheeks and nose. _

His deductions were interrupted when John cleared his throat. Given how loud he would've had to do that, Sherlock was sure that John had hurt himself.

"My apologies," Sherlock said and turned to gesture toward the doctor. "This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson."

John nodded his head as a thank-you to Sherlock and extended his hand for the woman.

"It's nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. I'm Quinn McKinley."

Still no bells sounded off in Sherlock's brain.

"A pleasure to meet you," John answered. "So, you and Sherlock went to Uni together. That must have been.. interesting."

"It certainly was. Though, I must say, for the few times that I saw Sherlock with people, none of them were quite as good looking as you."

"I.. uhh," John stammered. "I'm sorry. What exactly do those people have to do with me?"

A flare of realization flashed in her eyes. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Seeing you with him.. I just- .. I thought it was a similar situation that I saw him in before. I'm sorry. I should start thinking before speaking. Forget I brought it up."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit at this girl. He knew exactly what she was on about. Though, how she could pick up on it now was intriguing. Had they been so obvious?

"So, Quinn, what have you been up to all these years?" Sherlock asked.

"I joined the army shortly after graduating."

"You're back rather soon, then, aren't you?" John replied rather quickly.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you get discharged."

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw John wince, slightly. Oh, how the detective hated for his doctor to remember that moment in time.

"You got discharged? For what?" John questioned.

"You see this leg?" she asked, gesturing to her right leg. "Not even my real one. It's a prosthetic they gave me after they took my own. I mean, sure, it was really messed up, but it was still my leg. Now they're uneven and I walk like total prat."

"I sympathize," John said.

"Oh, please, John. You were shot on the shoulder and you're fine now." Sherlock snapped. It was a bit harsh, and Sherlock almost regretted it. _Almost_.

"I'm sorry, guys," Quinn continued. "My friend brought me out to try and cheer me up over it and to help her find a guy. Going swell so far."

"Where's your friend gone?" John asked.

"We found her a guy for her to paw at. As to her actual location, I haven't the slightest idea. I've just been sitting here for the past hour or so."

"And, what, you don't want to find a guy for yourself?"

"There'd be no point. An asexual amputee who still suffers night terrors, hates physical contact with humans beings, not to mention social interactions - making this outing _so_ much fun - and is unlikely to give a rat's arse what people say, is not a very high-priority target on anyone's radar."

John laughed. "You sound nearly perfect for Sherlock."

The remark earned him a scowl. Quinn had apparently found it amusing, because she began to giggle.

Sherlock's brain began to list off more deductions._ Her accented is Scottish, somewhere in the vicinity of Dundee. She says she's asexual, yet dresses to the contrary. Says that she isn't a high priority on someone's 'radar' and yet her clothes suggest she could be. Trousers, of course, because she has a fake leg, but the blouse shows more skin than a typical asexual would like to show. No make-up, either. So, she knows she's attractive and will tease her way into a man's sight if she sees fit, but won't push the subject. Unless she gets bored. Oh, yes, she does sound perfect for me. Too bad, really. Then again, two manipulative people who tease others to get what they want - information, distraction from boredom, the list could go for a while - wouldn't be good. Not to mention there was only one person on my radar._

"Trust me, John. I'm not exactly Sherlock's type."

With the last comment, she gave a wink in the detective's direction. Sherlock could almost feel a slight blush rising in his cheeks. He dismissed the idea, thinking it'd be preposterous that a small remark - from a girl he didn't remember and who knew almost nothing about him - could cause that kind of reaction.

"Right," John said. "And what would Sherlock's type be?"

If any colour had risen on Sherlock's face, it would have been flushed out at that question.

"I'm sure you'll find out one day, John. It's not my place to tell you."

"Of course."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

_Close call_.

"Well," Sherlock interjected. "We best be off. Work to do, places to be."

"Of course," Quinn said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Watson. Sherlock, it was nice seeing you again. And it's nice to know you're not actually dead like I've seen on the news. It would have been a miserable world for _certain_ people without you."

Sherlock gave a glimpse of a smirk and turned on his heels, which brought him face-to-face with John, who was wearing a rather confused expression.

"Uhh. Yeah, nice to meet you, Quinn." John replied.

And with that, Sherlock began his stride through the club to the bar, where he was immediately put in front of the line by the barkeep.

"Ah, Sherlock. What can I get for you?"

"Good evening, Stephen. I was wondering if you had anything for me."

Stephen's face went blank as he focused on Sherlock. Making sure not to make a slip of unwarranted expression.

"And what might I have for you, sir?"

"I do believe you have something of mine."

"Ah." The man said with a smile and disappeared into a back room, which seemed to upset the other customers waiting at the bar.

When he returned, he carried a rectangular package in his hand. It wasn't very big, but wasn't small, knew exactly what was in it, but that wasn't the point of all of this. The point of the cryptic questions and vague replies was all for the Game. And like with every game, this one had its objective.

The objective of this particular game.. was John Watson.


	2. Deduction complications

John often wanted to question Sherlock's sources and contacts, but knew it'd be hopeless. He'd dealt with the Home-less Network, the former acquaintances from Sherlock's life, and even the posh wankers that seemed to flock towards his friend.

John would have liked to ask about that girl, Quinn, but knew it'd be pointless at this time and would have to remind himself to ask about her later on. But this.. a club that a guy like Sherlock had no - or rather, _should_ have no - business in, being friendly with the bartender, who was now handing over a package that looked very stereotypically ominous. It was wrapped in brown paper and accented with paper ribbon. The package reminded John of old movies where people were sent dismembered body parts or a bomb.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Stephen. You've been most helpful."

"Anything for you, Sherlock."

"Why?" John asked. "Why anything for Sherlock? What'd he do for you; get you off a murder-charge? Keep criminals out of this club? Incriminate someone else for you?"

"John-" Sherlock started.

"No, Sherlock. We meet one contact of yours after another and I don't get to understand how you know any of them? Don't be a prat."

Sherlock sighed. "John. This isn't the place for this conversation. I'll tell you what you want to know when we get back to the flat."

"Sherlock-"

"Anything you want to know, John. Just, please, wait until we're back at the flat."

John huffed. "Fine."

A smug smile threatened to form onto Sherlock's face, but instead there was a quick quirk in the corner of his mouth. "Excellent!" Sherlock pulled out his wallet and gave this man, Stephen, a large note for his troubles.

"'Til next time, Sherlock."

The detective gave a nod and went on his way towards the main entrance.

The closer they got to the doors, the more something nagged at John.

"Hang on," John called over the music, grabbing Sherlock's arm to have him stop. "I'll meet you outside. I have to do something first. Just go get us a cab, and for God's sake, Sherlock, if he seems the murder type, don't get in the damned thing again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking out the door. John turned and made his way through the crowd of dancing people and to the woman, Quinn, who was still perched in her seat.

"Hello, again," he said.

"Oh, hello, John."

"I was wondering if I could get your number. I mean - I'm not hitting on you. Not that you're not someone worth hitting on.. I just.."

"It's alright," Quinn laughed. "Yeah, you can have it."

"It's just," John stammered as Quinn began writing on a napkin. "It's not often that I meet someone who knows Sherlock from his life rather than from his infamy. Even rarely often that I meet one that also got shot in the military."

"Well, if you ever want to get together, John, just let me know," she said as she handed the napkin over. "God knows I'd love to stop hanging out with girls so much."

"Will do, Quinn. Thank you," John said with a smile on his face.

"Anytime."

With that, the doctor took his leave. He found Sherlock outside at the street, but there was no cab.

"Why haven't you gotten a cab?"

"Didn't know how long you'd be. What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"I was getting a girl's number."

If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock's eyes widened, microscopically, with a tint of jealousy.

_Strange_.

The detective composed himself and hailed a cab that was making its way down, they got in the back of the car and headed back to 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock, really," Mrs. Hudson started as she examined the contents of their refrigerator. "You should think about putting your experiments in a different storage space. I don't enjoy finding body parts in bags and heads on platters, young man."

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, hardly paying attention.

John was sitting on the couch, sipping his tea and enjoying the show. He'd watch their landlady make a fuss about the whole flat many times, and in turn, watch Sherlock's lack of caring. This time, the detective was a bit preoccupied with examining the package he'd received earlier that night, though he hadn't opened it.

"It's just the state of things in here, Sherlock. You boys need a case, otherwise I fear what will happen up here."

"Maybe if you wouldn't come up so often, you'd be less afraid, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Sorry," Sherlock told the landlady.

"It's fine, dear."

"Though, you are correct. John and I do need a case, and I think I've found something for us to work on. So, if you wouldn't mind.."

"Oh, of course, dear. I'll just get out of your hair."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Their landlady made her way out of the flat and down to her own, humming as she went.

"We have something to work on?" John asked.

"Of course, John. It might have escaped your noticed but there's an unmarked package sitting here."

"Yes. And.. Why haven't you opened it to see what's inside?"

"Oh, I know what's inside. This package isn't for me, John, it's for you. You need to deduce what's inside without opening it. I suggest you don't move it, you may not enjoy the reaction."

"I.. What? You want me to figure out what's inside a plain package without picking it up or moving it? Are you mad, Sherlock?"

"Of course not."

"I disagree."

"John, could you just do this, please?"

He huffed, "Fine." John sat across from Sherlock and stared at the plain, brown clad package. "So, I can't move it?"

"No."

"Can I sniff it?"

"If you feel you must."

"Lick it?"

"If you wish."

"Sherlock, how am I supposed to deduce what's inside this box if I can't really do anything with it?"

"Well, John, that is for you to figure out. But, just know that it's a gift."

"From whom?"

"Me."

"You- you got me a gift?"

"Yes. Am I not allowed?"

"It's just," John faltered. "I don't think I've ever seen you give someone a present."

"Well, congratulations, John. You popped my cherry. Now, get on with it."

John swallowed hard. Why did Sherlock have to use terms like _cherry popping_? Seemed a bit unfair. He felt the color start to drain from his face, closely followed by the heat that came with an embarrassed blush.

_Fuck._

If Sherlock were to notice John's blushing - which he surely must since the bloody pray was boring his eyes through him - the detective may learn something that the doctor isn't quite ready to share.

_Double Fuck._

John cleared his throat.

"Well, then.. Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome. Now, I've got other business to attend to. I want you to sit in this flat until I get back. Try to find out what is inside the package. If I'm still gone when you have an idea, text me. Otherwise, we'll discuss this further when I return."

"You can't just force me to sit here and wait."

"Just trust me, John. Sit there and ponder. Text me any conclusions you come to. I'll be back in a couple hours."

Sherlock moved elegantly to his feet, walking to the door and grabbing his coat and scarf. John watched him take his leave and listened to his footsteps descend the stairs followed by the door opening and shutting behind him.

John sighed to himself as he lowered his head onto his raised hands. He stared and glared at the package, wondering what would Sherlock have given him as a gift?

"Probably a dismembered arm," John said to himself. "Probably not a gift for me at all, but more something for Sherlock to experiment on and surprising me like this is just a bonus."

John pulled out his phone.

**_It's not an arm, is it? -JW_**

It didn't take long to receive Sherlock's reply.

**_No, John, it's not an arm. I'm offended that you think I would do that. Keep trying. Don't move from the table unless necessary. -SH _**

_Fuck._

John got up from his sit and clicked the kettle on. Tea was necessary for this. He was to deduce the contents of an unmarked box, a supposed gift from his insane flatmate, without moving it at all.

It was going to be a long night for the doctor.


	3. Interruption

_This is complete and utter nonsense._

John had been sitting at the table staring at the package for about 20 minutes.

_I can move around. Sherlock isn't even here, he'll never know._

John made to get up.

_Although, he could be with Mycroft and they could be watching the camera that the 'government' seems to constantly have in here._

John eyed around the flat.

_Oh, fuck this._

John got up, grabbed his laptop, and sat on the sofa. It took all of 40 seconds on the couch for his phone to go off.

**Go back to the kitchen, John. -SH**

John sighed. How did he do that?

**This is ridiculous. I'm not going to sit at the table and stare at a box. You know I won't be able to figure it out, you just want to prove that I'm not as observant as you are. JW**

John's phone didn't have time to hit the sofa cushion before it went off again.

**John, get back to the kitchen. Now. SH**

**No. JW**

John didn't receive a text after that one. For now, at least.

_That's one for Watson, then. Good. 'Bout time._

Suddenly John's laptop disconnected from the internet and began to act funny. He pressed keys in attempts to fix it, but nothing helped. Then his phone sounded off again.

**There. Now your laptop won't work, mine won't work, and the telly won't work. Get back in the kitchen and make a deduction. SH**

**Not happening, Sherlock. JW**

**Please, John? SH**

_Fuck._

Why couldn't he resist Sherlock saying please? Absolutely unfair.

John sighed and went back into the kitchen and sat down in front of the package again. After about 3 minutes of staring, he took his phone back out.

**Do I get a hint, at least? JW**

**No. SH**

He groaned in irritation and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

_Alright, Watson. You can do this. It's a package that looks like it could hold an arm. It's not an arm, apparently. Could be a tie? Why would Sherlock get me a tie?_

**Is it a tie? JW**

**No. SH**

_Shit. Okay.. What the fuck fits in this sized box? _

**Sherlock, I don't know what it is. Can you stop acting like a prat and just tell me? JW**

**Where's the fun in that, John? SH**

**I don't strangle you in your sleep with whatever is in here. JW**

**You'd have difficulties trying to strangle me with it. SH**

**Prat. JW**

**Think. SH**

_Fine. Could be a gun that I could bloody shoot him with. Arrogant arse. Maybe it's a whip so I can tie him down and just -_

John's phone went off again.

**Forget the package, John. We've got a case. Meet at the address you're about to recieve. SH**

And with a sigh of relief, John grabbed his coat. He left the flat, hailed a cab, and made his way to the scene.

As much as he'd like to deny it, he continued to think about what was in the box.

_Damn him._

_I guess I can keep asking him while I'm with him._

John wasn't prepared for what he was about to see. The cab pulled up to an extraordinary mansion. _Or a rather large estate, _as Sherlock would say. He could smell the rancid odor from outside.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said as he walked towards the doctor. "Nice of you to show up."

"Yes, well, better than sitting at the table."

"Why would you be sitting at the table?" Lestrade asked, handing John coveralls and shoe covers.

"Because, I told him to," said Sherlock.

"Why would he listen to you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but they both turned to look at John.

"There was a package," John sighed, slipping into the coveralls. "I'm supposed to figure out what's inside it."

Neither of them replied.

"Right," John continued as he finished putting on the garments. "So, the case, then?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said. "Come with me. You're gonna want to find a way to not inhale in there. It's really unpleasant."

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Sherlock said.

They bounded up the stairs to the intricate double doors that laid open. The display before them was like nothing John had ever seen. The floor was a pool of blood, naked bodies were hanging from the ceiling, there were blades of all sorts laying on the floor.

"Jesus," John muttered.

"Right," Lestrade started. "So, the house isn't owned by anyone, so there's no real lead there. No close neighbours, so they probably didn't see anything. Donovan is questioning them as we speak."

Sherlock didn't seem to be paying any attention to it, though that isn't all too surprising. He rarely does.

"There was a party here," Sherlock suddenly said. "There was dancing all inside this room, closely resembling a ritual, it would seem. The guests chose these weapons off of serving trays. When the band struck up-"

"Band?" Lestrade interrupted.

"Yes, a band. Obviously. Don't interrupt, Lestrade. When the band struck up, the guests began to dance circles below the bodies. When the music hit the crescendo, they began to slice at the flesh. They danced in the blood rain as it were merely water. They sliced until the bodies no longer screamed, and they sliced some more."

"Dear God," John said in disbelief.

"Who would do something like that?" Greg asked.

"We're going to find out," Sherlock exclaimed with a broad smile upon his face.

"Sherlock, we're in a pool of blood and there's bodies hanging from the ceiling. Might want to hold off on the smiling until we leave."

"Right," Sherlock said, letting his face go back to being unfazed. "Of course, John. Well, Lestrade, I'll begin working on this. I'll need samples to test, obviously. So, where is your irritating forensics worker?"

"Anderson is waiting outside. He was having a slight bit of trouble with all of this."

"Of course he was."

"Sherlock, look around. It's not really surprising that a lot of people are having problems with this. We can't all be.. well, you."

"I'd certainly hope not. Then again, there'd be a lot less stupid in the world."

"Sherlock," John warned.

The detective's mouth perked up in one corner, a micro-expression of a smirk.

"I'll just go get some things from Anderson, then. Maybe I'll just do his whole job for him."

"Be nice," John said with an edge to his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked out of the house.

"I don't know how he does it," Lestrade confided.

"Nor do I, Greg."

"How do you put up with him?"

"One day at a time."

They laughed.

"Every day that I don't strangle him is a successful day."

"True. Though, there might be a lot of unsolved crimes in the world if you did. Then again, I suppose we wouldn't have as many headaches."

Sherlock took that moment to stroll back in through the doors. He bent over and took samples of the blood on the floor, swabbed a fair few of the blades on the floor, and a few metal flakes that were threatening to fall off of the rusting chains that held the bodies up. He even took a moment to sniff the bodies and weapons.

John didn't understand how the detective could stomach doing all of that. It's no wonder Anderson was having trouble coming in. Maybe Sherlock _should_ just do the man's job.

"Ah, there we go," Sherlock said. "That'll be all for now, Lestrade."

The consultant started walking out of the house, already analyzing the samples.

"Come, John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

That was more than the doctor needed to high-tail it out of there. When they got outside, they shed their coveralls - or just shoe covers in Sherlock's case - and placed them in evidence bags to take with them as more samples.

"Can you smell the aroma of the case, John?"

"I'm not really sure I want to."

"Nonsense! Open up and let in the enticing fragrance."

"Are you high or something?"

"Of course not. You took my secret stash - even my cigarettes - I've hardly been out of your sight up until today. Where would I have gotten drugs?"

"Right. So, this is just.. Being married to your work, then?"

"Until something more exciting happens, yes."

"More exciting than your cases? What could possibly be so interesting?" John asked with a taunting tone laced in.

"Once you deduce what is in the box, you will know."

John sighed and groaned with irritation. This case and that package were going to be hell for him.


	4. Hook, Line, Sinker

Sherlock hailed a cab once they reached the main road.

"This is your cab, John. Get in and go back to the flat. I'm going to Bart's."

"Why can't you do your experiments in the house like the rest of the time? Why do I have to go back to the fl-" John's sudden realization made Sherlock smirk. "You've got to be kidding. Sherlock, it isn't the time for you to leave me at the flat to work on a ridiculous deduction whilst you're off working on a bloody case!"

"Go back to the flat, John. Work on your deduction and I think you know what to do when you come to a conclusion."

Sherlock thought John was about to lose it when the shorter man bit into his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut with frustration. Shortly after, he let out an exasperated breath, seeming to cool himself down.

_He's probably already figured it out, _Sherlock deduced of John. _He's afraid of being correct about his result. He drank two - no, three cups of tea while sitting at the table before getting up and going on his laptop. Angry about being left to do a difficult deduction with hardly anything to go on. Began biting on his nails in irritation. The answer was on the tip of his tongue just before I interrupted-_

"You are absolutely impossible," John said.

"So I have been told many times," Sherlock replied, gesturing towards the waiting cab.

With a huff of pent up vexation, John got in the cab and headed off. Sherlock waited for the car to be out of sight before hailing one for himself and heading to Bart's.

Even if John's cabbie had driven as fast as it possibly could, he couldn't have reached the flat by the time Sherlock got a text.

**Is it a book? -JW**

_He's avoiding his real deduction. For God's sake, John._

**No. -SH**

_If John is going to dance around it, we both shall._

Sherlock smirked to himself. John will have to say it eventually, but for now it was a hell of a show to watch.

The cab pulled up to St. Bart's Hospital, and Sherlock stepped out into the crisp air and paid the cabbie.

Ah, St. Bart's.. Sherlock could walk through that place blindfolded. Not only from having worked there for some time, but this was an original design for his mind palace. That was, of course, before it became necessary to upgrade. The rooms were never big enough in the Bart's model. Then there were the unnecessary caretaker closets. The hospital had them, but Sherlock had absolutely no use for them. The morgue was an excellent addition, however. Any memory he didn't want was disposed of there. Any bodies from crime scenes were put in the cold chambers. Now, the corpses from unsolved cases were put into their own room, each so carefully designed to match the crime scene as closely as possible.

Sherlock walked the halls, hardly paying attention, and nearly ran right into Molly.

"Oh," Molly said. "Sorry about that."

"Why would you be sorry?"

"Because.. I- We- No reason."

Sherlock was bewildered at her behaviour. Probably another one of those emotions where people say sorry for every little thing. _Nearly _running into someone was nothing.

"Well," Molly continued. "I assume you got a case?"

"What? Why? What makes you think that?"

"You're looking around like you're remembering rather than just thinking. You really only give that look for a fair few of reasons."

"Such as?"

"When you're remembering details of a case, remembering something that will help you with any conclusion you get during any experiment, and - uh - well, that's about it."

"You said a fair few, Molly. So far, you've only given two."

"It's not my place to say."

"I'd be delighted to hear the rest," Sherlock said with an edge in his voice.

"It's nothing. Really. I got to be off, now. Corpses aren't going to autopsy themselves."

And with a small chuckle to herself, Molly walked away, briskly.

_More avoiding. Fantastic._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued in to the lab.

_Ah, now we're talking, _Sherlock said to himself, taking the samples from his coat pocket then removing the coat itself.

_Ah, and what shall we start with this time? How about the flakes?_

Sherlock picked up the slide box that contained flakes of metal from the rusting chains. He put a flake on a slide and put it under his microscope, but before he could even look at it, his phone went off again.

With a sigh of irritation, he pulled his mobile out.

**Can I X-Ray it? JW**

_Oh, for the love- _

**No. Well, not unless you can get an X-Ray machine into the flat and pay no mind to the radiation that it'd bring. If you can manage that, do go ahead. SH**

_Has he really gotten that desperate? He'd have only been sitting there for about half of an hour. Surely he can't have gotten that bad so fast._

Sherlock slipped his mobile into his jacket's inside pocket and turned his eyes back to the metal flake.

_It seems to just be zinc, so the chain is probably covered in it. Most chains are, so there's nothing useful with this._

Sherlock removed the slide and tossed it aside, soughing.

There was nothing. Nothing special about the blood. No leads from it at all, no matter how deep Sherlock searched.

Sherlock groaned and dug out his mobile from his jacket.

**John, I'll be in my mind palace. If you figure it out before I'm done, just wait. SH**

He placed it back in his inside pocket, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. And as he exhaled, Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he began to navigate through the manor.

_What would make someone throw this kind of party? To impress a pretty girl? Unlikely. A fetish? Also unlikely but still very possibly. _

He walked the halls in search for an answer, but before he could find anything helpful, he was distracted by one of his favorite rooms.

The sign read: **DR. JOHN WATSON**

_Well, this is inconvenient_, Sherlock thought as he walked through the door. _If this is going to become a reoccurrence, I might have to change it from a room into a basement. No accidental ways of coming across a basement in this place._

The room had more file cabinets than most. There were two against the wall dedicated just to John's physical appearance and emotions. An entire drawer for how John liked his food. John's mannerisms and speech patterns. How John responded to different physical contact and body language. He was even able to wire in an olfactory memory to the room and the entire space _smelled_ of John.

Sherlock took a deep inhale of the scent. He made it a habit to drop in this room whenever he came here - unless there was an urgent matter that didn't give enough time for such luxuries.

_Right.. Time to get to work._

Sherlock came back to the 'real world,' and immediately checked his phone for a text from John.

**Is it a whip? JW**

Sherlock's lips twitched a tad with delight.

**I'll be home in 20. SH**

And just like that, the consulting detective abandoned his work, grabbed his coat, and headed back to Baker Street.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to 221B and practically took the door down as he did, abandoning his usual elegance.

"So," John started. "I was right, then?"

"You were, indeed," Sherlock replied, shedding his coat and hanging it on the rack.

"Does that mean I can open it now?"

"You may."

With a face of disbelief and confusion, the doctor tore the package open. Sherlock wasn't sure a face could twist up much more in uncertainty.

"So, it _actually_ is a whip?"

"A bondage whip, to be precise."

"I see. And, why would you get me a whip?"

"For you to use with one of your many companions."

"What makes you think I'd want to?"

"John, please, don't pretend like I can't see through you and your quirks. I remember when we went to Baskerville. You marveled in pulling rank and giving orders. I saw your reactions to The Woman."

"Now, hang on. Just because I reacted to her doesn't mean a damn thing."

"And the pleasure of giving orders?"

"You would enjoy it, too, if you got the chance."

"Oh, but I have."

"Pardon?"

"Well," Sherlock began, clearing his throat. "You see, John, I actually do it quite often. Mostly to you, of course."

"I'm sorry, you what?"

"When I picked the package up, you began to ask questions. I insisted you stop, though you were persistent. That led to me actually asking _politely._ However, when we got back here, I told you to stay put and do your best to deduce what was inside. Which you obeyed, more or less."

"So, you did another damn experiment on me?"

"It can hardly be called an experiment, John."

"You bloody- no. No. _No._ And what would have happened if I'd never come up with the right answer?"

"Well, now, that's a funny little story," Sherlock uttered, his voice dropping almost an entire octave as he made his way to stand behind the doctor. "After a few days, if you still hadn't figured it out, I'd have shown you. I'd have taken one of your ties, one of my scarves, or a belt from one of our robes, and tied your hands behind your back after stripping you down to nothing but your pants. And I'd have marked you, John. I'd have turned your skin so red, it'd look like you'd been burned by the sun."

Sherlock heard an audible gulp from John, even though he tried to hide it.

"I would have you begging, John."

"Begging for what?"

"For anything. For everything."

A shuddered breathe was released by the doctor, causing a small smile to appear on Sherlock's face.

_Hook._

"Then what," John inquired, the sound of fear and what sounded like the sowed seed of self-disgust.

"Now, John I can't just tell you everything. I could still come home and do all of this to you. And don't feel so ashamed about wanting it, it's perfectly natural."

"Being whipped until I look sunburned - on hopefully my back, chest and abdomen rather than my face - is not exactly natural. Let alone normal."

"Oh, normal. We're back to this, are we? Are you aware of who I am and how little I care about _normal_?"

"I'm aware that you care very little, Sherlock. I just wish for once in your bloody life you'd remember that other people tend to care."

"Well," Sherlock started. "If I had you tied up, it wouldn't matter. You'd be mine to do with whatever I please."

John gave no further replies. The detective took the silence to get right next to John's ear.

"And you'd love every second of it, wouldn't you?"

Another audible gulp was heard from the doctor.

_Line._

"I am not having this conversation, Sherlock," John spat out quickly.

"Why not? Afraid I'm right?"

"No," the doctor replied, his voice shaking.

Sherlock rounded the table and leaned across toward John, studying him.

"Do you want to try that again?"

"I said 'no,' " John stated, voice shaking even more. His eyes were battling his words. The eyes of the doctor were nearly beckoning with a wild hunger.

Something sparked in Sherlock's mind. The Game was making headway.

_Sinker._


	5. Evasion

_Well, this is particularly.. not good._

Sherlock was leaning across the table, watching and waiting for John to react.

"I need out," John said abruptly, getting up and walking out of the flat.

"Don't forget your coat," Sherlock called out to him with an undertone of amusement.

John bounded back up the stairs, grabbed his coat, and descended down once more. The weather had a harsher bite to it than it had when he'd arrived.

_Well, shit. Now what am I supposed to do? _

John pulled out his mobile and pulled up a text to Lestrade.

**Fancy a pint? Sherlock is unbearable at the moment. JW**

He slipped the phone into the pocket of his jeans and stood outside, waiting.

Before he came up with a distraction, his phone went off, vibrating against his leg and causing him to slightly twitch.

**Can't. We've got the case, remember? We're swamped on our end. Best of luck to you. Don't kill him quite yet. GL**

John groaned.

_Could just have a pint with myself, I suppose. _

He pulled his wallet out to see how much cash he had on him and was surprised with a piece of cloth.

_Quinn McKinley. Could give her a ring. Maybe she's still at the club._

**Hi, Quinn. It's John Watson, we met earlier today. I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink? JW**

**Sure, John. I'm still at the club. Come on by. Am I to do the initials, too? QM**

**If you want. I forget that not everyone does it. JW**

**It's fine. On your way, then. I'm at the same table. QM**

John walked to the main road and hailed a cab.

_Thank God. None of Sherlock's antics for a while._

John's mobile rang from inside his coat.

_Oh, he bloody can't know what I'm thinking and when I'm thinking it._

**Shall I wait up for you, then? SH**

**Not necessary. JW**

There was no reply after that. Probably for the best.

Time seemed a blur between getting in the cab and pulling up to the club. It was as loud as it had been earlier that day, if not louder. The smell of alcohol and sweat were more potent than it had been. The air was full of it and combined with the thickness of carbon dioxide from the panting attendants.

John made his way through the crowd of drunk dancers and found Quinn, still sitting by herself.

"Hey," John called over the music.

"Hi there."

"Haven't moved, I see."

"Not yet. I was waiting to see if my friend was going home with that guy or not. Jury is still out."

John gave her a smile, which she returned.

"So, what drove you away from home at this time of night?"

"Oh, it's just Sherlock being himself, really. He started another experiment with living people again."

"I see.. On you?"

"Of course not me," John replied, too quickly to be convincing.

Quinn raised her eyebrows. "No, of course not."

The doctor cleared his throat.

"Right," Quinn said, changing the subject. "Earlier you mentioned that you were also shot in the military. Care to share? Sorry if that's straight forward. Never quite grasped the concept of refraining from blurting things out."

"Uhh.. Sure. It's alright," John cleared his throat again. "Well, I was an army doctor - a surgeon, to be more precise - and I was deployed in Afghanistan. I was patching up a wound when our camp was attacked. I was shot in the shoulder, close to my heart. Once the fighting was over, I was saved, but I began suffering from enteric fever. Those together got me invalided and sent back here."

"Wow. That is one hell of a story, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, well, it'd be an easier burden to carry if I had two good arms."

John made an insincere smile. Quinn didn't reciprocate this time, but instead seemed to be studying him.. analyzing him.. _deducing _him.

"So," John started, hoping that the continuation would make her stop. It didn't. "What happened to your leg? If it's alright to ask."

"No worries, John, it's fine. I was deployed in Iraq. We were patrolling a village, and we had no clue there were land mines around there. No one had sighted anyone planting them, but they were there nonetheless."

Her voice began to shake. "As we were walking, I took a bad step, and all we heard was the click of the pressure plate."

"Jesus," John said, breathily.

"So the rest of the party started freaking out and trying to come up with ideas to save me. They looked for rocks that could be the same weight - if not heavier - than I was. We didn't have our backpacks with us. Wouldn't have mattered, though. This isn't Indiana Jones. If the weight lightened in the slightest way, it would have detonated and hit all of us. I couldn't raise my foot or even slide it off the plate. There really wasn't anything we could do. So, I sent them running, telling them to be careful not to step on another one. And, they ran away. I stood there, thinking of my family and friends and everything I would never see again and the things I would never experience. Then, I was ready. I stepped off, and it blew. I think I passed out from the pain, but I woke up, luckily. Though, I wish it hadn't been at that point. I looked down, and my leg-"

She didn't seem able to finish.

"Was it already gone?"

Quinn shook her head. "No, it was barely attached. I saw everything inside it."

"Oh, God."

"The worst part.. Was I was't even thinking 'Oh, God, I lost my leg.' I was more marveled by the structure of a leg. It's kind of crazy to think about."

"And then they amputated it. Christ, Quinn."

"Thank you for not apologizing about it. Or being freaked out that I wasn't immediately thinking about my nearly-gone leg when I saw it."

"I live with Sherlock Holmes. That isn't the least bit surprising to me anymore. And, it's fine. From experience, I know that saying 'sorry' doesn't help anything. If anything, it almost feels insulting."

"Exactly. Like yes, you're sorry, I'm sorry, everyone is sorry. Does that get my leg back? No."

"Does it make my shoulder heal and get rid of my limp? Not at all."

"You weren't walking with a limp."

"I used to have a limp. Psychosomatic, actually. I guess we have Sherlock to thank for that one."

"Of course. He would have seen right through you. No offense."

"None taken."

"Hell, even I can see through you. In a good way."

"Is there a good way?"

"Possibly. I can deduce nearly as well - if not on par - with Sherlock. Surprisingly easy, actually."

"Can you? So, what can you tell me about myself?"

"Are you sure you want me to?"

"Sherlock does it all the time. I'm hardly fazed by it anymore."

_Lie._

Then Quinn's voice took on a quicker, familiar, pace - a deduction's pace.

"I can tell that Sherlock did something before you texted me. I obviously wouldn't be your first choice of someone to hang out with, considering we just met earlier this day. So, it wouldn't have been Sherlock, and considering you're friends with him, most people wouldn't stay around. Maybe two, six at most. At least one of them would be unreachable at this time. The other is more of an acquaintance and not one you'd take out to a club - or out at all, for that matter. So, who would stay friends with you, even though you're with Sherlock Holmes? Policeman?"

John couldn't even answer her. His mouth was slightly gaped with shock, where it remained while Quinn gave a smile and a quick nod.

"I'll take that as a yes. So, the policeman was too busy, no surprise there. But, what was it that Sherlock did to drive you out of the house? When I saw you two leaving earlier, he was carrying a package. Maybe he started with the drugs again. No, that can't be it. If he'd started that up, you wouldn't have left his side no matter how angry you got at him. I don't think he'd come to a club to get cigarettes. Judging by the rosy colour rising in your cheeks, I'm going to assume it's something you don't want me to say. Would you like me to stop?"

"Probably for the best. If you could tell what was in the package, I'd seem incredibly stupid. Though, I found it out a while before I asked about it."

"That embarrassing, huh?"

"Bizarre, actually. I don't even know what to think about it, to be honest. It's just.. Why that? I mean, what could possibly make him think that that was an appropriate thing to give me as a gift? Christ."

"What was it?" Quinn asked, though the tone in her voice suggested she may have already figured it out.

"Let's not talk about it, shall we?"

"Of course. I'm sorry. You only just met me. It'd be weird."

"Yeah.. So, have you any information about Sherlock from his Uni years?"

"Besides most people hated him because of his brain and his mouth? Yes. Though, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want me to share those ones."

"I won't even let him know."

"Well, he had this time where he was with a different person a lot of the time. By 'with', I mean he was having sex with quite a few different people."

John felt a lump in his throat. "Sherlock was having sex? I thought he was asexual."

"Well, I don't know him that well, John. But, speaking as an asexual, I can tell you that even though I have no desire to have sex with someone, I still can. I do it for manipulation - then again, I'm a psychopath. Or to distract myself from immense boredom. Or - and it happens very, very rarely - I do it from wanting to. Surprisingly, an asexual CAN want to have sex. Actual sex, not manipulative sex. It just takes a special person that makes them want to. Love, I suppose it'd be called. But, even then, that isn't always the case with every asexual."

"And, did Sherlock love any of them?" John asked, trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.

"I'd guess not. He never seemed to bothered that he was no longer with them."

"Oh, good."

"Good?" Quinn asked, amusement lacing her words. "Why would that be good?"

"I-"

_What do you want me to say? 'Because I want him to only love me, but he's a sociopath and probably never will?'_

"I just don't enjoy the idea of him being played by some arrogant arse."

Quinn smiled. "Of course, John."

The doctor felt a vibration from his pocket.

_Oh, great, _he thought as he fished the mobile out of his jeans.

**How long do you plan on staying out tonight, John? SH**

"Speaking of arrogant arses.. It's a text from Sherlock."

"Oh? Wanting you back home?"

"I guess. I should be on my way, though. I've been here for.. Wow. Two hours," John stated, glancing at the time on his phone.

"Ah, you should. Can't leave a bored sociopath alone without a doctor, can you?"

John laughed. "No, I guess you can't."

"I'll see you around, John," Quinn said, extending her hand out.

"'Til next time, McKinley," John replied, shaking her hand.

The phone went off again.

**Please come home, John. SH**

John sighed. He smiled at Quinn and took his leave.

_This had better be good, Sherlock._


	6. An Awful Lot of Ideas

**Please come home, John. SH**

_Back to asking politely. This isn't going over nearly as smooth as I'd hoped._

Sherlock had been sitting in the flat waiting for John since he'd ran away. The detective had been laying on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, for almost the entire time. Really, the only time he moved was to text John and read the responses. Sherlock's mobile buzzed in between his hands.

**I'll be there soon. JW**

_Good. Oh, John.. When will you start to play the game with me?_

With a victorious sigh, Sherlock wandered back to his mind palace, back to the room marked **DR. JOHN WATSON. **He took a deep inhale and a strange feeling - _content, I assume_ - washed over him. There was a bookshelf on the left side of the room. Half of the books were John's blog entries, new ones appearing every so often. A sofa sat just next to it against the adjacent wall. The upholstery was like a patchwork of different fabrics that made up John's jumper collection.

"Sentiment," Sherlock said aloud. "Never did I imagine feeling such a pointless emotion."

He sighed and grabbed a book from the shelf. _A Strange Meeting_, the blog entry of their first encounter. The checked pattern of the shirt John wore that day covered the front and back. The spine was the dark blue of his coat. _Sentiment._ He sat himself on the sofa and read the words that his flatmate had written about him.

'_…Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd be invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right but he even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told him..'_

"Definitely psychosomatic," Sherlock said.

_'It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

_So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.'_

It always seemed rather wonderful how well their names went together. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock and John. The detective and his doctor.

He liked to read this particular book. It reminded him of his own initial reactions to John. Seeing the now familiar face for the first time.

It was also remarkable how much they had changed each other. John had seemed to accept his own tedious life by the time Sherlock strolled into it. Now, John can get almost as antsy without a case as Sherlock does. The detective used to spend his time alone, isolated. He'd manipulate whomever he wished, whenever he saw it fitting. Once John limped into his life, that .. Well, that didn't change all too much. But, here Sherlock was.. Wading in a pool of sentiment, however shallow the pool may be.

Like the sound of a PA system, John's voice echoed in the room.

"Sherlock, are you asleep or just out of it?"

"Mind Palace," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and sitting up. His eyes fixed on John, who had apparently been home long enough to change into his pajamas and robe.

"Right. And, what was so urgent that I had to come home?"

"I wanted to make sure that I didn't scare you off for good. But, you came back, so I guess it couldn't have been that bad."

"Sherlock, will you do me a favor?"

"Unlikely, but what is it?"

John walked into the kitchen and grabbed a chair from the table, bringing it back to the sitting area.

"Sit," John demanded, in a commanding tone.

"What?"

"Sit in the chair, Sherlock. Actually, straddle the chair. Face the back of it."

"I don't understand what this is."

"This is me giving you an order."

It must have just been Sherlock's curiosity for where this would lead that made him get up and sit on the chair.

"Now, listen to me, Sherlock," John said. "I know that you get overwhelmed-"

"I don't get overwhelmed, John."

John grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck.

"I didn't say you could speak yet." John released him. "Since you get overwhelmed when you're touched, I'll give you the option of unbuttoning your shirt yourself. Otherwise, I'm going to do it. Which would you like?"

"You can do it, John. I don't get that overwhelmed."

"Good," he said as he stepped behind Sherlock. John put his own head next to Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around to the buttons on his tight, white shirt. As he began to slip them undone, John also started to nip at Sherlock's neck. He gave small bites all the way up from his shoulder to just below his ear.

Sherlock's exhale had more of a shudder than he anticipated. He felt John smirk against his neck.

"Like that, do you?" John asked, clearly amused.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, the transport obviously seems to."

"Right. Just the transport," he said before licking up his neck. Sherlock bit back another breath and sat up straighter.

"John, I think the unbuttoning would go faster if your hands were still on them and not slipping under the shirt."

"And I think that if you keep acting like that, you may regret it."

"Why would I regret it?"

John's hands went back to the buttons and released the rest of them. He practically tore the shirt off of Sherlock. As he nipped on his shoulder, John raked his fingers down Sherlock's chest before removing himself.

"I must thank you, Sherlock," John said.

"And why's that?"

"You gave me an awful lot of ideas."

There was a strange sound - _cloth running against cloth, not that strange _- from behind him.

"Put arms hands together in front of you."

Sherlock's hands intertwined on the other side of the backrest.

"Good," John said, moving in front of Sherlock. He was holding the belt from his robe, and began to tie Sherlock's hands together. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The whip."

"Where you left it in your haste."

John smirked and walked to the kitchen. Sherlock turned his head in time to see John pick the whip up. He stood there with it, looking it over more carefully than he had a couple hours ago.

_He's taken a liking to it. Although, he plans to use it on me. Not that I mind it on my skin, but I was supposed to use it on him. This isn't going according to plan at all. How did I not see this one coming?_

John turned and walked back to Sherlock's waiting skin.

"A present you clearly intended to use on me. How do you feel about it being used against you?"

"Not too bad."

John dragged the tendrils of leather over Sherlock's back. It sent an electric jolt up and down the detective's body.

"How is that?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, though he wasn't entirely sure.

The whip was separated from his skin for a second or two before it collided with his skin with a rather loud slapping sound. Sherlock inhaled quickly and breathed out slowly to avoid making any unnecessary noise.

John whipped him again, harder than before. An unexpected, low rumble came from Sherlock's throat.

"Your starting to get a bit red."

"That would be what happens, John."

John's hand came from behind and grabbed Sherlock by the throat - loosely, not choking.

"Didn't I tell you that you'd regret it if you kept acting like that?"

"You did."

John's hand squeezed a bit and he brought his mouth to Sherlock's ear.

"Then I guess I'll have to make you regret it, won't I?"

"You can try, but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you."

John moved his head and stepped to the side, keeping his hand on Sherlock's throat. He squeezed it a bit harder and brought the whip down across his back again, causing Sherlock to arch his spine forward and let out another shuddered breath. Whether the shudder was from pleasure or the pressure on his throat, the detective couldn't tell. In quick succession, John collided the whip to Sherlock's back multiple times. Sherlock released a low, rumbling growl that was hardly human.

Sherlock heard the whip hit the floor as John released his throat and walked in front of him. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. The sensation of contact on his scalp was electrifying. John's hand curled into a fist in Sherlock's hair, and the doctor leaned in and gave Sherlock the roughest kiss he'd ever received. It was assertive, dominating, and unrestrained. And with a nip of Sherlock's bottom lip, John moved away again. The detective was taken aback by it.

"John," Sherlock started.

"Shut up, Sherlock," the doctor replied.

John untied him and walked quickly to his own bedroom, taking the robe belt with him and not looking back.

_Why would he leave? Surely I didn't do anything this time. _

_It must have scared him. _

_Oh.._

_John is finally playing the game._


End file.
